


One Week

by MadameReveuse



Category: American Revolution RPF, Sons of Liberty (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Hancock is secretly A Gay, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Sam's terrible life choices, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameReveuse/pseuds/MadameReveuse
Summary: Sam hates having to hide out in Lexington, away from the action, with no company but John Hancock. But it's just for a week. One week can't be that bad. Nothing... weird is going to happen.





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, another adcock fic by me. Why can't I just keep myself from doing this?
> 
> I wanted both of their POVs on different parts of different days, so to avoid extensive head-hopping, I opted for VERY SHORT CHAPTERS. You'll see why as the story goes on. Rating will probably go up to M later. There'll be a warning for possibly triggering content in the beginning notes of each chapter that has such content.

It had all started – well, at least, _something_ had started when Revere had brought the message that Gage knew the location of their base and would be dispatching troops there, and that therefore it would be prudent for Sam to hide out somewhere else.

“I know a house down the road in Lexington,” he had said. “You can hide out there ‘till we come up with a plan.”

Sam had somewhat grudgingly agreed. For one thing, the thought of being holed away somewhere far from where the action was happening didn’t sit well with him. Neither did the thought that _he_ , his person, was somehow the most important and valuable key element of this… organization. Gang of thugs. Revolutionary movement. Call it what you will. Whatever it was, he had not started it out of a desire to become a heroic figure. And he dreaded the thought of people willingly putting their lives on the line for him, while he ran away to safety somewhere.

But he had acquiesced and then Revere had asked, “What about him?”, looking off at something or someone behind Sam.

“Him, who?”

“Hancock.”

Sam had turned and indeed spotted Hancock, leaning in the farmhouse’s backdoor, arms awkwardly crossed, staring off at nothing in particular, not noticing Sam and Revere in the entrance of the barn looking his way. _Being a waste of space,_ the mean, spiteful part of Sam thought. _I bet in a minute some other guy, someone who does some actual work around here, will try to use the door and bump into him._

He didn’t even know why Hancock irritated him so much. Maybe it was because the little twerp was so _difficult_. It wasn’t usually hard for Sam to assess people, and his feelings towards the people he knew were usually clear cut. He cared and loved fiercely (his friends, his family, yes, even Cousin John), he hated passionately (Gage) and felt fairly indifferent towards the rest. But with Hancock, things suddenly got complicated. A weird grudge was warring there with a strange fondness, both of these emotions equally baffling, because it was irrational to feel any of them. Hancock was just the man who paid for everything. That was his role, his only meaning to the cause. Useful, but not remarkable. Not someone who warranted all these emotions. And yet, Sam couldn’t just switch them off.

“What about Hancock?” he had asked.

“Gage knows that he’s paying for all this. He’s a fugitive, too.”

This had amused Sam, in a morbid way. Himself he could understand (although he was still quite nonplussed about how things had developed that rapidly). But Hancock only was here because he had no other place to go. He certainly was no revolutionary. He probably didn’t even care. And now he was second in line to be hanged.

“Then I suppose he’s coming with me, isn’t he?” Sam had said and decided to tell Hancock the happy news himself. Already turning to go, he’d raised a finger and added, “One week.”

 

* * *

 

Now here they were. The house in Lexington was on the small side, more of a cottage really, with an adjacent garden patch, in a quiet street. It had obviously been home to a single inhabitant not too long ago, but was now abandoned. Revere hadn’t said how he knew this house, or why it was so conveniently empty, or what had happened to the owner, but Sam could take a good fucking guess. It made him feel another wave of bitterness washing over him, the feeling directed to the oppressive force of Britain crushing civilian lives under its heel, a sickly roiling wave in the pit of his stomach as he explored the house that had once been filled with serenity and light, and the well-kept little vegetable garden. Now he was to spend a week in these sad remains of a life. Squatting here. With no company save for Hancock.

They had come here in secrecy and darkness, and it was already late. Revere had already gone home, promising that he’d send someone with provisions and news from the outside world as often as he could. _It’s only for a week,_ Sam told himself. _A week should be bearable._

And yet he knew he was going to be antsy the entire time. He didn’t like this. All sorts of things were probably happening already that he knew nothing of, and more things would happen tomorrow and the day after and the day after. And here he was, unable to do anything useful, cut off from the action.

“I’ve found the bedroom!” Hancock announced from somewhere within the house.

“Thank the lord for small blessings,” Sam replied wryly. He was rightly tired, and he expected Hancock was even more so. The little princeling still complained about his ass getting sore from riding a horse. Of course he used polite language, but at the end of the day he was still complaining about his ass.

“There is but one problem,” Hancock added timidly, entering the room in which Sam was standing.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“There is only one bed here, as far as I’ve seen.”

“Ah. You can have it.” Sam felt less than enthusiastic about giving the only bed up to Hancock, but, well, the man had something to him that made you take pity on him.

“Oh, I couldn’t accept this…”

 _Of course you can_ , Sam thought, _and you’ll whine the whole time if I take you up on your offer_. But Hancock lived under the misapprehension that he had to be polite to everyone at all times. It was nice that he wasn’t looking down his nose at Sam or his friends, but his slightly displaced etiquette could be tiring. For example, if Sam chose to go along with it now, Hancock would most probably go on to _insist_ that Sam take the bed, and they would be arguing back and forth for the next fifteen minutes at _least_.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying for brief but not rude. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll find a couch or an armchair or something.”

“But—”

“Look, I’m tired and I’m not in the mood for a debate. Take the damn bed.”

“Alright,” Hancock said quietly, nodding. Everything about him seemed to close up, his stance, his expression, becoming timid and withdrawn once more. Sam sighed. Now he’d done it again. He had once more intimidated/offended/upset/rejected John Hancock. He did not mean to be doing this all the time. It was an ongoing miscommunication between the both of them that Sam had no idea how to correct.

He was a simple, straightforward man who had spent his life amongst people who valued simplicity and straightforwardness. Hancock was different, fussy, complicated, easily hurt. These qualities made him extremely puzzling as well as strangely endearing. Of course he also seemed to recover quickly from any slights against his person and would probably act like Sam’s misstep had never happened tomorrow… which somehow made Sam feel worse about it.

“Well, goodnight,” Sam said to him and headed out in search of the aforementioned couch or armchair or something.


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Time for another chapter!! This time from Hancock's perspective.
> 
> Did Sam carry him into bed?? You bet your asses he did.

For the first time in quite a while, John woke up in a real bed. The pillow was lumpy and the sheets hadn’t been aired in a while and had that unaired-sheet-smell to them, but it didn’t matter. John had grown considerably less picky in regards to these things lately. It was a real bed, in a real house, and that, by itself, was a blessing. He quickly dressed and ventured out into the kitchen in search of something to eat.

In the kitchen he encountered his involuntary housemate, still asleep. Sam Adams was a quiet sleeper, not so much snoring as making quaint little chuffing noises every now and again. He seemed to not have found a more comfortable place to sleep than the kitchen table that he had propped his long legs upon. He had simply covered himself with his greatcoat. John looked at him and felt ashamed and selfish for depriving Sam of the bed. Did he not deserve it so much more than John? Maybe he could raise the issue again later. Last night, he simply had not dared.

Sam was not as such a scary man. Not like General Gage. John remembered his short and dreadful meeting with the man all too well. Gage was creeping death. Gage was the sort of man who took pleasure in the thought that someone was in pain because of him. John, not exactly a shining beacon of morality himself (after all, he _had been_ a smuggler), had gone into the meeting merely uncomfortable, and had grown more repulsed by the minute, and not only because the man had decided to seize his house.

Sam was nothing like General Gage. He said what he thought, always. He did not play mind games. The sight of pain, anyone’s pain, enraged him. He was not a strategist; he thought up plans on a whim and they worked, somehow. He did not erect facades. He showed plenty of weaknesses, and made his men love him nonetheless. John could understand that devotion. That love.

But sometimes he found Sam nothing short of intimidating. He said what he thought – yes. His words could be scalding, could reduce John to a simpering child clutching at the (somewhat shabby) coattails of greatness. Whining for attention, for esteem, for anything other than callous disregard. Sometimes, Sam treated John almost as if they could someday be friends. But there were also the other times, when he treated him like an inconvenience at best and a completely useless annoyance at worst. In those moments, John felt a special kind of dread. It wasn’t that he was afraid that Sam might do something to him. That never seriously crossed his mind. It was the pure, visceral, heartfelt fear of being scorned by this man, of never earning his friendship, of never being able to meet him on an equal footing. John didn’t know why he wanted so badly to be liked by Sam. He just wanted it. Sam was like… like the sun. Him turning his back on you meant vegetating alone in the shade, miserable and cold.

It was out of that very fear that John decided to not wake him. He didn’t want to have to cope with being treated like a waste of space again, first thing in the morning. Besides, the man needed rest, that much was obvious. He certainly did not look intimidating now, but almost cute with his mouth slightly opened and his hair all disheveled. It was just so very much better to let him sleep. So John tried to be quiet as he rifled through the kitchen in search of breakfast.

He soon found the bundle that Revere had left them. It contained a loaf of bread that was not completely hard yet, some apples and everything else that the men had been able to scrape together on short notice, including a few blessed handfuls of coffee. Since lately there was a shortage of tea in these parts (but no shortage of it in Boston harbor), coffee had become a fashionable beverage for the rebellious colonial citizen.

John considered the merits of a cup of coffee. To get coffee going, he would have to boil some water first. Surely there was a water source around here somewhere, a pump or something – that was not the difficult part. To heat said water, he needed a kettle and a fire in the fireplace, since unfortunately this kitchen was lacking one of Doctor Franklin’s new-fangled stoves. There was a kettle sitting on top of one of the cabinets – but how did one light a fire?

He certainly needed firewood first. Where to find that? John groaned and pined for the time when servants had done all of this for him. The list of tasks one needed to complete to arrive at a simple cup of coffee in the end seemed unnecessarily long. Maybe Sam was right; maybe John was indeed completely useless.

He did not remain dispirited for long. Maybe he could manage nonetheless, and maybe he could complete all these tasks quietly enough to not wake Sam, so that maybe later Sam would wake up to a nice cup of coffee. Those were quite a lot of maybes. But John was willing to try. Carefully, he rounded the kitchen table to peer into the cold fireplace – and tripped over the fireplace poker. The thing toppled to the floor with a loud clang.

John hadn’t even gotten up off the ground yet when Sam raised his head and looked around, disoriented. His hand slipped underneath his coat in practiced ease, probably searching for a weapon.

“It’s just me,” John hurried to say. Sam turned his head, spotted him and groaned.

“Hancock? What the hell are you doing down there?”

“I tripped over this thing,” John said, gesturing at the poker. “I was just… having a look around.”

“Look around quietly next time.” Sam shrugged off his coat and stood up, yawning, stretching his sore limbs. His shirt rode up a tiny little bit, and John bit his lips and reminded himself that it was rude to stare. Still he couldn’t avert his eyes as Sam messily tucked his shirt back in, combed his fingers through his hair and adjusted the dishrag around his neck that John hesitated to call a necktie.

“Alright, now, how does breakfast sound?” Sam asked. “And why the hell are you still on the floor?”

“Oh, I was about to get up,” John said, but before he could do so, Sam had casually proffered a hand to him. John took it and was pulled to his feet. It made him feel… warm, perhaps.

They went through Revere’s bundle again together. Sam pronounced the contents adequate to last them for a few days, and yet he seemed to find something amiss, the corners of his mouth settling into a tight frown as he perused the food items now on the table, as if hoping against hope that there’d be more there if he looked extra hard.

“I didn’t take anything,” John said. “If you’re looking for something specific…”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Sam muttered. Then he sighed. “We’ll have to make do with this.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, but didn’t dignify that with a response.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast went by in silence, as did the rest of the day. There wasn’t much to do around the house and soon John was bored out of his mind. He spent a while just looking out of the window watching the wind rustle through the grass and the trees outside, while Sam paced the room like a tiger in a cage.

Sam wasn’t very helpful against the boredom, nor generally very pleasant to be around. All their attempts to keep a conversation going had so far been fruitless. When Sam spoke up, it was to bemoan his fate of exile.

“I wonder what’s happening over in Boston.”

“I wonder what Paul and Kelly are doing.”

“This is stupid, I should be out there with them.”

Nothing but this. For hours. John felt on the brink of going completely insane.

It was already beginning to get dark out when Sam suddenly got up from where he had been sprawled in a chair, took his coat and hat and made to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” John asked.

“Out.”

“We’re in hiding. We’re not supposed to go out.”

“Well, I’m done being in hiding then.”

“Hold on.” John also got up from his alcove by the window and followed Sam out of the room. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to Boston. Or to Concord. Anywhere I can bloody _do_ something.”

“And how are you going to get past Gage’s men? They will catch you, and they’ll hang you. Revere said—”

“I know damn well what Paul said. But maybe I won’t get caught. Maybe I’m not afraid to hang. There are people out there who are risking their lives because I said they should, and I’m _sitting_ here with _you_ —”

“Now _wait_ a _minute_. Listen.” John ignored the barb in Sam’s last words and seized him by the arm. “These people you mentioned, what would they gain if you went and died out there? Your whole precious movement would fall apart without you, abandoning these people to their probably dismal fate. You can’t let all of them down just because you’re bored!”

Sam gave him an annoyed glare and tried shaking off his hand, but John would not relent. “It’s not that I’m bored. Let go of me! I’m _needed_ out there…”

“Do you not trust Revere and Kelly and Warren to manage things for you? Have they ever been bad advisors?”

“No, but—”

“And are you going to sabotage everything they set up here for you just because you’re feeling like it?”

“Listen, unlike you I know what I’m doing, so _let me_ —”

They had reached the back door that led to the garden and the stables. There was a glimmering fury in Sam’s eyes, and John was almost afraid that he was going to hit him, but he still positioned himself between the door and Sam, trying to look straight-backed and valiant and like someone who actually had it in him to keep Sam Adams from going anywhere he damn well wished to go. He knew he was probably starting to tremble, as always when he was nervous, but he kept his chin up and stared into Sam’s intense, bottomless dark eyes in a way he hoped looked challenging and not like he was about to wet himself.

For some reason, it worked.

Sam stared at him in silence for a few, excruciating seconds. Then he forcibly exhaled, evidently trying to calm himself.

“Right,” he said at last.

“Are you staying in?”

“I suppose so.” Sam looked vaguely disgusted as he turned away from John and went back inside, but John didn’t mind overly much. He’d gotten him to see sense this time and that was all that mattered. He went back to his alcove and curled up in it, while Sam flopped back down into his chair. All of a sudden, John was feeling very tired. He watched with heavy-lidded eyes as Sam unearthed from his coat’s many pockets a suspicious-looking hip flask and took a swig from it without even thinking to offer John any of the contents. Not that John was seriously mad at this breach of etiquette. He wasn’t much of a drinker and would have probably declined anyway.

“What’s in there?” he asked, impending sleep transforming his voice into a lazy drawl.

“What’s needed to bear your presence for a week,” Sam replied somewhat tartly.

“This’ll last you for a week?”

Sam sighed, sounding put-upon. “Of course not.”

“Then you’ll have a problem soon.”

“Then I’ll have a problem soon.”

Not long after that little exchange, John fell asleep. He had a pretty little dream in which he could float through the air, and he floated from the little alcove through the dusty hallway into his soft, warm bed. In the morning, he woke up in the same bed, having no idea how he had gotten there.


	3. Day 3 - Midmorning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merr Critmiss
> 
> For those of you who celebrate: this is my gift from me to you. For the others: this is an ordinary update and I hope you enjoy it
> 
> Day 3 is gonna be a loooong day, maybe the longest in this fic, with several changes of perspective. A lot will be Happening. You'll see. Also this is the bit I've been teasing on my tumblr, come say hi to me there
> 
> If you left me a comment, it will literally make my entire remainder of 2016. And. Please??

Sam couldn’t find Hancock anywhere, and that aggravated him.

He had woken up rather late, and Hancock had not been in the kitchen, nor in the bedroom, nor in any of the other rooms. It wasn’t as if he was craving the man’s company, especially not after their little argument last night, but it was disquieting to not know where he was. Maybe he had gotten himself into some kind of trouble.

Sam pulled a door open and was now looking out into the garden. There wasn’t much to look at here; there were the stables to the side of the house, a row of hedges to the other side, some unkempt garden patches where something of some sort had been planted once, a bit of lawn, some trees that probably bore fruit a little later in the year. Sam was by no means an expert on gardening or farming of any sort. John Adams was the farming cousin. Sam had honestly never seen himself as the sort of person to sit down and in all seriousness compose a recipe for manure. And yet he could not deny that the little garden had its charm. The air was fresh and the sun was warm, but not unpleasantly so, and no one was trying to attack him. The whole thing had a simplistic beauty to it.

Sam stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled. He could whistle loudly enough to be heard across a noisy Boston square. Now, a few startled birds flew up from the surrounding trees.

“Coo-ee, Hancock!” he called out.

Hancock promptly emerged from behind the shrubbery. What he had been doing back there, Sam had no idea.

“Ah, hello,” Hancock said, looking flustered as he so often did.

“What are you doing out here?” Sam asked him. “We’re in hiding, we’re not supposed to go out, remember?”

“Oh but, someone needs to feed the horses.”

“The stables are all the way over there,” Sam said, pointing. “Did you get lost?” He smirked. Winding Hancock up was just too easy. He always blushed so prettily and stared at his feet and bit his plump, pink lips. They seemed almost unnaturally pink today, maybe it was the sunlight.

“I was in the stables,” Hancock said quietly. “But then… it’s just such a nice day, and it’s so boring inside. And then I found…”

“What did you find?”

Hancock gestured towards the hedges. Sam went to investigate, hoping it wasn’t a dead body back there or something.

He did not find a dead body, or anything particularly interesting, but he did see that the bushes were littered with tiny pink spots, approximately the color of Hancock’s lips.

“Raspberries?” he asked.

“They seem to be in season now,” Hancock said, shrugging. “I just couldn’t resist.”

Sam picked one and popped it into his mouth. It was ripened to perfection, a small explosion of sweetness. He nodded and made an appreciative noise. Suddenly he had to smile. The thought that Hancock had hidden behind the hedges and stuffed his face with raspberries like an eight-year-old, to the point where the juice had stained his lips, was just too amusing, and perfectly in line with Hancock’s usual behavior.

He found he didn’t have it in him to insist they go back inside. All the petty little incentives to give Hancock a hard time were blown away by the mild summer breeze, melted by the sweet taste in his mouth.

“At least you left some for me,” he said, plunging his hands into the bushes. “Come on, whoever picks least is a tory.”

Hancock huffed as he stretched out lazily on the grass. “Must everything be a competition with you?” He picked another berry and ate it deliberately slowly.

“Well, someone doesn’t mind being called a tory.”

“Not like I’m not used to hearing that from you.”

Sam bristled, but Hancock hadn’t said it in a provocative way. His expression was amiable, his posture loose and relaxed. He was also very much in a state of – what was that called – déshabillé. Sam recalled how he had first encountered Hancock, all buttoned up and tidy and with this ridiculous wig on. His natural hair looked much better. On the farm in Concord, Hancock had shed his fancy coats and wigs relatively soon. Then the cravats had disappeared, then at last even the waistcoats, until he was running around in nothing but boots, breeches and a shirt, practically half naked. Perhaps he wasn’t even wearing stockings. The thought gave Sam some pause.

It was nice of Hancock to not prance around the place presenting his fancy wardrobe and flaunting his wealth, Sam supposed. It was not very nice of Hancock to parade his sloppily dressed, half-naked ass around in his face all the time. He was probably not doing it on purpose. But if he was! Well, in that case he was devious. And his lips were oh so pink. Sam put another raspberry into his mouth and wondered if that was how Hancock’s lips tasted. He contemplated just leaning in and finding out.

Not wanting to be caught staring at the man’s mouth, Sam leaned back into the grass and stared into the sky instead. It was blue with barely a cloud, and the grass was warm and smelled nice. After a long time of hiding and fighting and going out primarily at night, it was strange to just lie here in the grass, all out in the open, in the middle of the day, and not do anything in particular. It was even more strange to be almost completely alone, with no company save for Hancock, when he had been surrounded by dozens of men at all times during the last few weeks. He wasn’t usually overly fond of solitude, but maybe he could get himself to enjoy this.

“It’s strange, huh?” Hancock asked in this very moment, as if he’d read Sam’s thoughts. “How peaceful it is. In contrast to… well, everywhere else.”

Sam huffed a little laugh. “True.”

“Like a little islet of peace.” Hancock sounded positively dreamy. “In a sea of chaos.”

“You don’t like chaos, huh?” Sam said absentmindedly, caught up in the endeavor to try and grab another raspberry from the nearest bush without having to sit all the way up. A lazy warmth had spread in his limbs and he soon resigned himself to reclining spread-eagled on the grass.

To his surprise, he was having a pretty nice time of it, behind the dreaded house in Lexington, with Hancock. Of course this was not a state that could last. It was momentous, fleeting. Soon he would become uncomfortable and all the worries and concerns, both great and small, at the back of his mind would come back to the forefront. He needed a bath. He hadn’t changed his shirt in way too long. He almost childishly missed his friends. Today he hadn’t had much to eat or anything to drink yet – well, he’d taken a few sips from the pump earlier, but he hadn’t had anything _to drink_ yet. He was rationing what precious little he had on him, and it would soon become a problem. It wasn’t bad now, just a languid but incessant tug at the back of his brain, like a second pulse, the constant, steady reminder that his body needed something and he had not delivered yet. It would soon trickle down into his limbs and tug at him everywhere. This in itself was not that bad, could be almost enjoyable, and when he had nothing better to do, Sam liked to challenge himself in that way, see how long he could hold out. But if there was no relief from the feeling, he knew it would become agony. And these were just the smaller, immediate troubles that weighed on his mind. Outside their little “islet of peace”, there was a war going on and he still had no news.

But in this moment, in this very brief moment, none of these thoughts could really touch Sam. They were all present before him, they always were, but he was content nonetheless to just sprawl in the grass here and let the sun shine down upon him. And when he sat up, there would be Hancock, looking pretty and probably still stuffing raspberries into his cute, pink mouth.

He propped himself up on his elbows. “Toss one over, pretty boy.”

Hancock did not seem bothered by being called a pretty boy. He threw a raspberry at Sam, who attempted to catch it in his mouth. He missed and it landed square on his chest, making another stain on his greasy shirt. Sam wondered if Hancock would be perturbed if he licked the stain. It was such a vibrant pink and he felt tempted.

“Bad aim,” he said, sitting up. “Try again.”

“You try to do better.”

“Are you not scared to stain your pretty shirt?”

Hancock shrugged. “Who’s going to see me?”

“Well, I am.”

“You don’t count. No fashion sense.”

“You wound me.”

“Go on, try.”

Soon they were pelting each other with berries, trying and sometimes even succeeding to catch them, until their fingers and mouths were sticky and pink. For a brief period of time, they were laughing like children, as if they had no care in the world, as if they weren’t grown men with the weight of a rebellion on their shoulders.

There were dark times ahead. But both of them would remember this light-filled moment, the raspberries, the green grass and the shared laugther: a much-needed respite from a fledgeling war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John Adams really wrote a recipe for manure. He thought it was like, the best manure ever.  
> I have no explanation for this chapter other than, I was in college during raspberry season and therefore missed my mother's entire harvest and it pissed me off. Also I like setting stories in mid/late summer to distract myself from the depressing cold out. It is 3am again. What am I doing wihth my lifE


	4. Day 3 - Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tries to cook. Hancock gets some Information. Something is Amiss Here. 
> 
> i love you, reader. enjoy this. no pressure

It was already quite late in the evening when John trudged tiredly into the kitchen. He stopped, mid-yawn, in the door as he beheld the scene now before his eyes. Sam had lit a fire in the fireplace and was – no, John’s eyes did _not_ deceive him. Sam was trying to cook something.

John cocked his head, considering in silence which one out of his several questions to ask first.

“What are you making?” he chose.

“Stew,” Sam said curtly, dumping various chopped-up vegetables into a pot.

“What sort of—?”

“It’s just stew. No questions asked and none answered.”

John sat down on one of the counters and dangled his legs. “Why?”

Sam threw him a quick glance over the shoulder that was hard to decipher. “Because I thought we could both use a warm meal? I for one am starving. Are not you?”

“Oh, yes.” John hadn’t even noticed how hungry he was. But now he fervently hoped that Sam’s efforts would result in something edible.

“Can I help?” he asked.

Sam flashed him a second-long smile. “Please do not try.”

John shrugged. _Of course he still thinks I am useless._ It had been foolish to presume that one pleasant afternoon spent together would change anything in the grand scheme of things.

He spent some time just watching Sam. Either cooking made him nervous, or something else was amiss, because he seemed uncharacteristically high-strung. His hands fluttered way more than usual; when they were not occupied by his task, they were smoothing down his unruly hair or wiped on his breeches, as if his palms were permanently sweaty. Maybe it was the heat of the fireplace. Maybe it was something else. Sam was not usually a nervous person, and John had never seen him like this before.

“How do you know how to cook?” he asked him.

Sam barked a short laugh. “I don’t,” he said. “Most of this is guesswork.” Even his voice was tense. Maybe he was thinking of the war and his friends again.

“But not all of it?”

“I vaguely remember my wife doing something like this once, but…”

John looked at Sam in surprise. He’d never heard him bring up a wife before. “I didn’t know you were married.” He felt a jab of pain at this. He didn’t know why. Or actually, he did exactly know why. But as long as he did nothing to acknowledge these feelings, these secret hopes, then it couldn’t hurt him overly much when they were inevitably disappointed.

“I was married. I’m not anymore.” Sam wiped his hands on his breeches for the umpteenth time.

John frowned in what he hoped looked like a sympathetic way. Sam was not the sort of man who got a divorce, so it was easy to fathom what had happened.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You needn’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“How do you just bear this?”

“Oh, you know,” Sam said almost absentmindedly, stirring his stew. “You win some, you lose some.”

“What?”

“I mean, the lord giveth, the lord taketh away.”

“It’s so very unlike you to hide behind platitudes.”

“Well, maybe I just want no further discussion of this.” Sam raked his fingers through his hair, a strangely erratic motion. His hands were so uncommonly restless, always searching for something to do…

But John would not be scared off, not now that suddenly a window into the most private world of Sam Adams had been opened. “How did she die?” he asked, maybe a bit too eagerly because Sam shot him an annoyed glare.

“Did someone’s mother not teach them not to ask invasive questions?”

“I’m sorry,” John stammered. “I’m just trying to… understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You.”

Sam sighed, a long, hissing exhale. “In childbirth,” he said. “Nothing to understand here. This has nothing to do with… with anything. Could have happened to anyone. Sometimes people just die, no reason to it. No reason needed.”

“The child…?”

“Was also lost,” Sam snapped. He was apparently nearing the end of his tether.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I wasn’t trying to dredge up hurtful memories. I was just…” he halted. He had no idea what he had _just_ been doing.

Sam huffed and gripped the edge of the counter as if to stabilize himself. He was turning his back on John again, and the line of his shoulders was tense. But his voice was a little softer when he said, “You’re just trying to get to _know_ me, now that we’re stuck here together.”

“I suppose so,” John said, relieved.

“Take care that you do not find yourself… disappointed.”

John swallowed reflexively and wondered how much Sam in turn knew of him. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“There’s no hero’s story behind what you know of me. There’s no noble or exciting reason as to why I fight. I’m just… some man, no greater than any man. I’m tired. I haven’t changed my shirt in a week. I haven’t seen my children in several months. I’m… not the stuff that heroes are made of.”

“Children?” John blurted out.

“You seem surprised,” Sam said dryly, turning his attention back to the food. “Hmm, and this seems almost done.”

“You never mentioned _children_ before!”

“And yet I have them. Will you make yourself useful and look for some bowls or plates or anything in here?”

“How many?” John asked.

“One for each of us, I reckon.”

“What?” That answer was so strange, it gave John pause. Then it dawned on him. “Not the plates, your children.”

“Also two.” Sam almost smiled.

“But… no offense but… where _are_ they?”

“Should be in one of these cabinets here, I don’t know, just have a look around.”

John huffed and crossed his arms. “Sam, for god’s sake.” He finally found plates and handed them over to Sam, who distributed the stew. There was a little lull in the conversation as they sat down and started eating. He noticed that they had so far always taken their meals together, an odd imitation of domesticity and family. Strange.

The stew itself was… edible, it was not anywhere near cuisine, but it was warm and filling, so John ate with vigor. Sam had proclaimed to be starving, but now he was barely touching his plate. After a while of poking around with his fork, he sighed and took up where he had left off.

“My children aren’t here, obviously. I had them taken some ways away from Boston, to go to school. Away from all the bad blood here. All the money I do not have goes towards their education.”

“Ah. So they won’t be affected by the riots.”

“Yes. I hope they can make a place for themselves in the world where they’re not weighed down by the burden that is their lowlife father. I was thinking if they were to be tutored in a place where not everyone knows each other…”

John cocked his head quizzically. “But would not any child be proud to have you as their father?”

Sam laughed. “You’re adorable, Johnny.”

John bristled a little. Not only had he just been called _adorable_ by Samuel Adams (ironically, but still), he had also, perhaps for the first time since they had gotten acquainted, been addressed not only by his given name, but a diminutive thereof. Perhaps he should be offended, but all he felt was a strange pride. He was still a bit nonplussed about Sam just revealing all this most private information about himself tonight. Maybe it was because of the pleasant afternoon they had spent together, but he seemed to have risen in Sam’s regard if he was opening up to him like that. Or maybe he was so uncommonly talkative for another reason. Maybe he was trying to talk over something else – whatever it was that occupied his mind, making him so tense. He had still barely eaten anything, while John had already cleared his plate.

“You were right, you know,” he said. “A warm meal was a great idea. Can I get seconds?”

“Please don’t hold back on my behalf.” Sam was now eyeing his plate in an almost disgusted manner.

“You’re not hungry?”

“I—no. Not anymore.”

“But you said you were…”

“I don’t _need_ —” Sam snapped, then halted abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Just… tired.”

He got up and left the kitchen abruptly. John sat looking after him.

“Hmm,” he said.

After a few minutes he stood and followed.

 

* * *

 

He found Sam curled up in his favorite alcove; his eyes were closed but he was definitely not sleeping. He looked faintly ill. Even in this relatively cool room, he was still sweating, and yet his hands were consistently, almost compulsively rubbing his upper arms, as if he was cold. John wanted to ask him what was wrong, but at the same time he didn’t dare. Like every person in this world, he had seen his fair share of sick people, of fevers, flus and common colds. This looked unlike any of that.

He thought about the time they had spent here together and tried to remember if and when Sam had given any hints or symptoms of being anything less than well. He couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary before this evening. What had changed?

Then something clicked.

He almost laughed, so relieved was he with having figured it out. Of course Sam wouldn’t have talked to him about _that_. That was not what Sam was like.

John left the room. Earlier, when exploring the house, he had noticed a trapdoor leading down into a basement. He had not gone there before, but now he would. If there was any way to resolve this issue, the means would be found in the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to do something with the actual family that Sam Adams had that's just not in the show. Especially the children. But also the Second Elizabeth. Maybe one day.
> 
> I always seem to update this at 3am. no one reads it but i guess i will continue and it will make me sad and angry and frustrated but whatever


	5. Day 3 - Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will the third day EVER end?
> 
> Hancock figures out what Sam's problem is. The two of them begin talking over a few things, but there's a lot of talking that has yet to happen. A Realization is dawning on Sam, but he's too busy with his own problems to do much about it.
> 
> Angstier than the average chapter. Contains references to alcoholism and withdrawal from same. Proceed with caution if that sort of thing triggers you.

Sam quietly cursed his useless friends for leaving him out here to dry, but most of all he cursed himself for ever having let it get this far.

Sure, the move here had happened very quickly, but he should have taken care of things regardless. He should have taken care of things months, years ago. He should have gotten this nasty habit out of his life altogether when there had still been time for it. But then, could anyone have predicted the course his life had recently taken?

The truth was that he had utterly overestimated himself. How bad can one week be, he had thought. Foolish, foolish. It wasn’t like he didn’t know exactly how bad it could get.

The apprehension – no, let’s face it, he thought, the _fear_ of what was to come was worse than his shaking hands and the loud, aching clamor of his entire body. He remembered all too well the first time he had tried to go _without_ for longer than a day or two. His cousin’s guest room. The agony. The utter contempt, disgust and pity on Cousin John’s face when he had begged him, down on his knees, for relief. Weeping. John hadn’t looked him in the eyes since.

Sam did not want to repeat this whole undignified procedure in front of Hancock. But he was not seeing any way around it. How was it suddenly so important what Hancock thought of him? He should just see it, the whole disgusting spectacle, see exactly _what_ he had chosen to throw his lot with. To believe in. A hero of the people. Sam stared at the ceiling as his stomach turned.

Of course it was unwise to disillusion Hancock. Hancock’s money was what kept the movement afloat. He was at the mercy of a man likely to turn his back in disgust very, _very_ soon.

And what of him then? What of his sons of liberty then?

“Um, excuse me?” it came chirping from the doorway.

_Oh speak of the devil_ , Sam thought.

“Mmmh.” He shut his eyes again.

“I was wondering if you’ve ever been to the basement here?”

“No, John, I have not been to the basement here,” Sam said, taking care to pronounce every word clearly.

“Ah. Well, I have been. And I’ve made a most joyous find! It appears that the previous tenant of this cottage has been somewhat of a connoisseur of wine – and whiskey, too – I think this is Madeira…” There was a clinking sound as Hancock set down several objects upon the table. “Would you be at all averse to sharing those with me?”

Sam’s eyes fluttered open. He saw Hancock by the table, looking at him with a crooked, nervous little grin. He was wiping the dust off the labels of several bottles he had with him.

“Little actual sharing needs to happen,” he clarified.

Sam slid out of the alcove and gave Hancock a surprising hug. It surprised himself almost as much as it surprised Hancock.

“Of course,” he said after a moment, clapping Hancock on the back. “Of course I’ll _share_ these with you.”

“You’re welcome to,” Hancock said with an inviting sweep of the arm at the table. Sam took the nearest bottle and removed the cork with his teeth before he drank.

The relief came slowly and in dizzying waves. He had escaped the more severe effects of withdrawal by about an inch, but he had also dropped his every last protective shield in front of Hancock. Minutes passed before Sam dared to raise his head to look at the man.

Hancock was sitting in a chair at the table, watching, nothing else. Apparently he was really not interested in sharing a drink, as he had made no move to open a second bottle for himself. He just looked at Sam with that sad little pout on his pretty face.

“Well,” Sam said. “Got anything on your mind?”

Hancock raised an eyebrow but was silent. For once he seemed uninterested in talking Sam’s ear off. He seemed to be… deliberating.

“It’s none of my business,” he said quietly at last.

“But you must be having thoughts,” Sam continued to poke around in the wound. “You went into the basement. You figured this out. I sure as hell didn’t tell you.”

Hancock huffed. It sounded almost amused. “It doesn’t take a genius to note how whenever we have encountered each other in the past, you were drinking. And that today you have not been.”

“Are you serious? _Every_ time?”

“ _Every_ time.”

Sam shrugged. “Well, you’re free to judge—”

“I’m not. Judging. It’s not that dreadfully important to the cause, is it? You have managed well so far.”

“I was meaning to stop. I always meant to stop. But… in the middle of a war zone… it’s not the time and place for that.”

Hancock tilted his head in a thoughtful manner. “Does not every man have his vice?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, wondering if Hancock was including himself in that statement. What vice might proper little John Hancock have? _He_ certainly did not drink in excess. Sam had seen him nursing one of those ridiculously small wine glasses for entire evenings. He did not smoke, either, nor was he known to pursue ladies of the night. When Sam had first encountered him, he’d had the look of a man who enjoyed a few too many good dinners (he had become leaner since), but again, nothing on him hinted at excess. He _was_ a bit too fond of lavish parties and expensive clothing, but while that certainly was a quirk of character that Sam didn’t much approve of, it was in no way a vice.

He decided to just ask. Whatever was in that bottle, it was making him feel like a person again. A bit lightheaded too.

“What might your vice be?” he inquired, grinning.

Hancock looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sam said almost gleefully. Why that sounded positively _sordid_.

Like every person without money, he had heard lots of fantastical stories of what the rich got up to in those opulent manor houses. Most of them he had always brushed off as nonsense. And Hancock seemed… normal. He was not an aristocrat, he was a businessman, and soft-spoken and mild as he was, he let people feel the difference. He looked out for his money. He bartered one-on-one with confidence and fervor and seemed to know the price of every thing. If he appeared a little out of touch with reality sometimes, it was because behind the dreamy façade, he was at all times calculating his wins and losses out of every situation. He had joined the effort so late not because he was a coward but because revolts were bad for business, and he was looking out for his business interests. He was no dreamer, idealist or firebrand. He was a merchant. Yet he was never cruel nor impolite to anyone, no matter how lowly. Sam had never seen him get angry or lash out at anyone or demand to be treated with respect or even common civility. He had grown up learning etiquette, and it visibly alienated him to find himself surrounded by compatriots most of whom probably couldn’t even spell the word, but he adapted quickly and kept quiet and did not make a fool of himself as often as Sam had feared he would.

All in all Sam found it hard to imagine Hancock at, say, some kind of orgy with a lot of other rich people. The image just didn’t fit in his head. Whenever he tried to imagine what Hancock might have done with his time before the war, the image that surfaced was either of him socializing, making polite conversation at one of his parties while eating too many quail eggs or whatever it was that the rich ate, or sitting over his books on quiet evenings behind a ridiculously ornate desk, adding up sums.

And yet…

A component that did not appear in said mental images were ladies. No powdered young women hanging on his arms at parties. No wife calling out for him from the bed at night, “Darling, put away those ledgers and come to sleep.” Certainly no mistresses. Hancock was not the type.

Then what type was he? The eternal bachelor? For what reason?

“This vice of yours, is it less socially accepted than my horrendous day drinking?” he asked, feeling mischievous.

“Can we please let it rest?” Hancock replied.

“Is it something to do with…?”

“I very much think I should go and take a walk in the garden,” Hancock said a little shrilly, rising from his seat.

“It’s dark out. You won’t see a god-blessed thing.”

“I think the moonlight will do,” Hancock said and gathered up his coat. “I don’t know why it is, but I suddenly feel an inexplicable urge to _move_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ofc we all already know what Hancock's deal is. The suspense (I hope) lies in the question of in which way is Sam gonna figure it out  
> I'm glad some of you commented this time around!! It really made me happy. Keep it up maybe? If you wanna? Nothing bad will happen if you don't, I'll just get sad I guess


	6. Day 3 - Night (cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedsharing happens. Sam's kinda drunk which causes him to lose any kind of filter he might have had.
> 
> In the next few weeks, I will be busy with university stuff, so I thought before I plunge myself into that quagmire, yall should have another chapter. In the next chapter, the rating will be changed to M soooo. you know what that means
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left a comment. You guys are doing god's work, keep on keeping on my pals

When John came back from the moonlit garden, he found Sam still in the same spot he’d left him in. One of the bottles he had retrieved from the cellar was now empty at Sam’s feet.

“John _ny_ ,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes lighting up in the genuine way. “I got drunk on accident again.”

“By accident?” John said doubtfully. “Wasn’t that the goal?”

“Oh, not at all. Not _this_ much.”

John nodded. He thought he understood. Sam was the type of person who was always, at any time of the day or night, in a state of having had a few drinks. John barely knew him any other way. Nonetheless, he’d never seen him heavily inebriated. Sure, when an evening had progressed quite far and Sam had been steadily drinking, there were usually little tells: a flush high on his cheeks and slowed reactions. But John only knew this because he happened to spend a lot of time stealing looks at Sam. That, too, got less risky when Sam had had a few drinks.

But usually Sam did not binge-drink. He spent his day with a certain amount of alcohol always in his system, constantly just on the edge of tipsy, and at that not unable to functionally live and run a revolutionary movement. But tonight, maybe out of relief, maybe as a side effect from the day’s withdrawal, he had gone a little overboard.

“Well, it’s late,” John said, extending a hand. “You can’t stay here.”

After a few tries and a bit of fumbling, Sam managed to grasp John’s hand and was pulled to his feet. He immediately took to leaning heavily on John’s shoulder for support. John led him carefully out into the hallway.

“Where’re we going?” Sam muttered into his hair. John could feel his breath near his ear. It gave him chills.

“Bedroom, of course. It’s been a long day. We should both sleep.”

Surprisingly, probably due to his present condition, Sam did not protest as John manhandled him onto the bed. He just took to lying there, spread-eagled and grinning at the ceiling. Apparently he was a very mellow drunk.

“You should at least take your boots off.”

Sam continued smiling, made a humming noise and did not comply. John sighed, bent over and divested Sam of his boots, necktie and waistcoat. The rest he had planned to leave as it was until Sam uttered a pathetic little whine and poked John’s side with his stockinged foot. John sighed again and more deeply and helped Sam wriggle out of his stockings too.

“Wait. Hold on,” Sam said, as if he had just gotten an idea. He raised a swaying finger for emphasis and John watched as it drew eights into the candlelit darkness. “Where will you sleep?”

“Here,” John said. He sat at the side of the bed and pulled his own boots off. “We’ve been ridiculous. This bed is big enough by far for the both of us.”

Sam did not seem to have objections. He attempted to reign in his limbs and scoot over to one side of the bed to leave more room for John.

“I shall extinguish the candle now if that’s alright with you?” John asked.

“You jus’ go ‘head and ex-tinge… ex… blow it out, Johnny.”

John did as he was told and slipped under the blanket, turning his back on Sam. “Goodnight.”

For a few minutes, silence reigned. John assumed that Sam had fallen asleep. He tried to shift a little as surreptitiously as he could. For all he had said about the bed being large enough for the two of them, they were rather close. Sam was very warm, which was not to be sneezed at in the night. He was also sweating booze, but John could get used to this.

“Hey Johnny?”

John almost flinched. So Sam was still awake. He did flinch when he felt two sudden arms wrap around him and draw him in.

“Johnny listen,” Sam slurred into his ear. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Do you need to be hugging me for that?”

Sam scooted even closer. John could feel his breath on the back of his head again.

“So the other day? Yesterday. When I wanted to leave and you told me no.”

_Oh dear_ , John thought.

“You said something then… that’s been bugging me. About… Paul and Kelly and… um, and Warren.”

This was going into a direction John had not anticipated. He had no idea at all what Sam would eventually get at.

“You said… you called them my _advisors_. As if they were… as if I were… well, the point is, they’re not, and I’m not.”

“Not what?” John asked.

“Not _leading_ ‘em.”

_Oh for god’s sake_ , John thought. _This again._ He had no idea why Sam insisted on doing this, proclaiming he was not in fact the leader of the Sons of Liberty when he so clearly was. The movement had formed around him. Everyone involved in it took orders from him, listened to him and respected him. He came up with the plans. He was the sun they all orbited around. Was that not the definition of a leader?

“What they’re doing is… they look out for me. Keep me out of trouble. Always have. _I’m_ the weakest link in their chain. And now people are coming, putting their hopes in me, even you, when I’m… this.”

John felt a hand that was not his clench into the fabric of his shirt. Right over the heart. “This, what?” he asked. “What are you?”

“You’ve seen it, you know it.” Sam’s voice was intent, the same as when he gave a rousing speech that inspired men to go up to the nearest tory and light him on fire. Only now it was just the two of them, in the dark, in a bed together, and Sam was trying to convince John of his own worthlessness.

John huffed. “This? You drink? Many people do. Some of the greatest minds, too.”

Sam stayed silent for a moment. When he spoke up next, the intensity was vanished from his voice. He sounded almost timid.

“My cousin always says…”

“Yes? What does your cousin always say?”

There was a long stretch of silence. John almost thought Sam had finally fallen asleep now.

“You must know,” he said then, “My old man. Was a priest.”

John prepared for a long, drunken tangent.

“Is that so?”

“A _puritan_.”

John patted the foreign hand on his chest. “It’s good to see that someone’s still a puritan.”

“Yes, and what would _he_ say. If he were to live. If he saw me now like this.”

“He’d say you’re so immensely brave.” John was surprised with himself and the emotional way in which that had just slipped out.

“He’d agree with my cousin in saying that I am completely useless.”

“I highly doubt that. You are trying to convince me to abandon my hopes in you, but all you’re doing is making me want to have _words_ with Mr. John Adams.”

Again, Sam was quiet for a long time. Then he suddenly chuckled.

“Johnny, tell me something.”

“Anything whatever.”

“Johnny, are you a sodomite?”

John tensed. Now it was he who elapsed in silence.

“That depends,” he said at last.

Sam hadn’t expected that reply, it seemed. “Depends on what?”

“On if you will or will not remember this conversation in the morning.”

Sam took a while to figure that one out.

“Hah!” he then said. “You’ve just given me a yes.”

“I’ve given you an _it depends_.”

“ _Johnyyyy_ ,” Sam whined. “It does not _depend_. You either are a sodomite or you are not. And if you were not, you would’ve simply said so.”

“Go to sleep,” John snapped.

“Do you… trust me, John?”

John sighed. “I do.”

“In that case you must know something.”

“Yes?”

John waited for the revelation forever. After a few minutes, Sam’s breath began to deepen and turn into these quiet little chuffing noises. He was sleeping.

 

* * *

 

John woke up the next morning with Sam latched to his back, his arms still around John’s middle, their legs all intertwined. Feeling more than a bit embarrassed, he disentangled himself and sat up. Sam didn’t wake or even stir.

John hoped dearly that when Sam woke up he would have forgotten all about the night’s conversation. Not only had Sam bared all his insecurities before John (at least he hoped Sam didn’t have any more, as of yet undisclosed ones) but he had pretty much uncovered the truth about John’s own… inclinations. John realized he could have simply lied but then again… lying to Sam wasn’t a thought that sat well with him.

But if Sam remembered this…

John was scared of what would happen when Sam woke up.

He got dressed and left the room, looking for something, anything to distract himself.


	7. Day 4 - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are cleared up. Rating is changed to M now. This chapter is much longer than the others bc a lot of stuff happens in it- y'know. Stuff
> 
> Sam doesn't even know what French kissing is. He is an embarrassment
> 
> Guess who's all finished with term papers!!!! Now I can regularly bother yall with fic again.
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you feel like it!!

Sam woke up to a mildly inconvenient hangover – nothing he wasn’t used to – and an empty bed. He dimly recalled Hancock being there when he’d fallen asleep, but now Hancock was not there. He’d probably gotten up and gone somewhere else, as one did.

It had been ages since Sam had had a large, soft bed all to himself. He intended to make expansive use of it and go right back to sleep. It wasn’t as if there was anything else to do here. Sure, he could always get up and look for Hancock, but apart from that…

Then, gradually, the memory of his conversation with Hancock came back to him.

He groaned as he remembered almost baring his entire heart to the man. He buried his face in the pillow in shame as he recalled asking Hancock if he was a sodomite. That had been a reckless blunder baring any trace of tact, and if Hancock hated him for it now, he’d be right to do so.

Suddenly the bed seemed a lot less comfortable. He got up, looking for breakfast and for Hancock. Surprisingly, he found breakfast first.

Hancock wasn’t in the kitchen, and a search of the other rooms made it clear that he was not even in the house. Sam searched the stables next and at last the garden. He didn’t find Hancock anywhere, not even in his little hiding spot with the raspberries.

It occurred to him to become a little worried. Maybe something had happened to him? Maybe he had wandered off and run into some sort of peril? In a matter of seconds, Sam’s mind spawned half a dozen dangerous situations that his innocent little companion could get himself into, all alone without Sam there to protect him. Or maybe… maybe he had gone off to do something… stupid. Maybe last night’s conversation had dealt a heavy blow to Hancock, and now…

Sam practically raced back outside into the warm summer midmorning, very warm for Boston and environs. The sun was glowing, there was a light breeze, insects were buzzing through the grass and maybe Hancock was in mortal danger.

There was a dusty little path on the other side of the garden fence that led… Sam knew not where. It wound its way through unkempt meadows where the vegetation grew half as tall as he was. Then it disappeared between trees and probably went further into the woods. Sam thought he could make out footprints here, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

Maybe Hancock had taken this path, but maybe he had stepped out onto the street out front and gone on into town. But the risk of being spotted and getting caught was too high out there. He’d have to have a death wish to even attempt it.

A death wish…

No. Sam brushed the thought aside. Hancock was more afraid to die than Sam himself would ever be. Impossible that one innocuous little comment uttered in the dead of night would change his mind so drastically.

No, it had to be the path.

He briefly considered just going back inside and waiting for Hancock to return, but he found that utterly impossible to do. It was only him and Hancock out here. If something had indeed happened to Hancock, Sam was the only one who could hope to rescue him from whatever it was.

He took his pistols along as he climbed over the fence and started following the winding little path. He was prepared to fight two, five, any number of redcoats if that was what it took to bring Hancock back to safety. His heart was thudding wildly, anxiously against his ribcage, his mind aflame with fear, not for himself, but for his friend. The mental images of what he might find. The horror of finding nothing at all…

On this narrow, dusty path, among the tall, sweet-smelling reeds and the buzzing tiny creatures, he wondered when Hancock had become this important to him. But three days ago, he would not have been in such a hurry to find and retrieve the man. He would, of course, have searched for him, but he would not have worried so. What had happened? When had Hancock grown from a nuisance into a friend?

Maybe it had been yesterday, Hancock’s nervous little smile when he had refused to judge Sam. Maybe it had been last night, when Hancock had been so small and warm and soft in his arms (he had no clue why he had decided to embrace Hancock. It had just seemed like a good idea). Maybe it had already happened on the first night here, when Hancock had kept him from going out and getting himself killed. There had been something about the way he’d been standing there, in pants-wetting fear (of him, Samuel Adams!) but determined nonetheless. It had touched something in Sam, had made his hardened heart quiver.

The path now went on into the woods, and Sam followed it without hesitation. It was slightly cooler here, underneath the trees, but not unpleasantly so. The area was light-filled and serene. A little ways up ahead, Sam could make out the gleam of water – there seemed to be a little pond there. Sam’s intuition told him to keep going in that direction.

The little scene Sam found by the pond was surprisingly tranquil – the sun gleaming on softly rippling water, reeds swaying in the gentle breeze, and there, sitting on a rock by the water, dangling his legs, was Hancock. He looked lost in thought, perhaps a little sad, but he was unharmed.

Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest. In that moment, Hancock, safe and sound and infinitely precious, was the most beautiful thing in the entire world.

He left the path and trudged over to the man, sending his voice up ahead.

“Hey, Hancock!”

Hancock turned his head, spotted him and waved, flashing a split-second, flickering little smile.

“Oh, hello, Sam,” he said quietly.

“What are you doing all the way out here, Johnny?” he asked, already for the second time.

“I was just… curious what was out here. And… I needed some time to myself.”

“You can’t just keep wandering off all by yourself. Had me worried.”

“You worried about me?” Hancock seemed pleasantly nonplussed by this.

“Well, there might be redcoats out here. And you can’t defend yourself.”

Hancock pointed out that he, too, was carrying a pistol.

“You know how to use that thing?”

Hancock lowered his head. “A bit.”

“Next time you’ll tell me if you want to leave. It might look like we’re all alone here but we’re not. We’re not safe. With the British on our land, we’re nowhere safe.”

Sam sat down next to Hancock. Hancock had slipped out of his boots and was tentatively holding his small, cute toes into the water. Why did everything about the man have to be small and cute?

“The water’s very clear,” he said, somewhat non-sequitur.

“Quite cold too, I bet,” Sam added.

“I thought I might take a swim. I haven’t bathed in so long, I feel like something living under a rock. Might just wash my clothes here, too. Of course it’ll be horrible on the fabric but… I don’t think I can stand this shirt any longer, it is soaked in sweat at this point.” He was talking quickly and quietly, with his head tucked in between his shoulders, obviously seeking to avoid more serious conversation on what had happened the previous night. Sam didn’t know how to broach the topic either, so he decided to humor him.

“You’ll freeze your ass off in there.”

“It can’t be _that_ cold.”

“I reckon it is.”

“I reckon it could be quite pleasant.”

Sam chortled. “You’re probably used to servants heating up your water for you.”

“Which doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate this!”

Sam just grinned and made a dubious noise.

“Well if _you’re_ so tough, why don’t _you_ go in?”

Sam considered this. He did need a bath, probably much more than Hancock.

“Fine!”

_“Fine!”_

Simultaneously, they stood up and stripped down. They left their clothes and weapons on the sunny little rock. Sam was the first to wade into the pool, intent on proving himself. The water was cold, but less so than he had anticipated. The longer he spent with most of his body submerged in the pond, splashing around more than swimming to keep himself warm, the more he found he could enjoy this. It felt great to just get _clean_.

“Hey, this is pretty nice, isn’t it?” he said, half-turning to face Hancock. His breath caught in his throat.

He had somehow not anticipated that Hancock would be so very close, and so _very_ naked.

He was standing there slightly stooped, splashing water onto his face and upper arms, as if slowly getting acclimatized to the water’s temperature would make anything easier. There were faint goosebumps on the skin of his arms.

He was so _soft_. Sam was used to men who were all sinews and lean muscles and very little fat. Hancock was different from all of them. Even though he sported a rosier complexion than when Sam had first met him, due to all this time spent in the outdoors, he was still so _pale_. So unmarred by any scars, bruises, calluses, blemishes and the like. Almost like… well, no, that was a foolish thought. Sam had only to direct his gaze a little lower, to between Hancock’s legs, to see that nothing about him was like a woman.

Sam did not want to remain looking there, not when everything else about Hancock was equally enrapturing. His eyes drank in the sight before him, marveling over how a person, living in the same grimy world that Sam had inhabited all his life, could possibly have remained so pure. Goodness, how could any one man have such good skin? Pale as cream and soft like butter. If Sam would just now seize him by the arm, his fingers might just leave imprints. Hancock might just melt into his touch.

“What are you looking at?”

“Huh?” Sam blinked rapidly and reminded himself to get it together. “I’m not looking at anything.”

“Yes, you are. You’re not so much bathing as standing in the water and _staring_ at me.”

“I’m sorry. You’re just…” Sam took a deep breath. “I want to talk about last night.”

Hancock stood a little straighter and crossed his arms. “Are you sure you want to have this conversation when we’re both naked and up to the waist in water?”

“Yes. Out here, right now, is perfect for it. You… you went out here because you were scared, right? Of what would happen if I found you out.”

Hancock looked down as if he could see the best possible answer in the water. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“You needn’t be afraid,” Sam said, the words hurrying to get out. “Not of me. You won’t judge me, I won’t judge you.”

Apparently it wasn’t quite the right thing to say. “I appreciate this,” Hancock said, still looking down. “But I don’t think you are understanding.”

“What…?”

“When I… I have taken lovers, men, in the past. I know it’s supposed to be a… transgression. Something that I am to feel ashamed of doing. But it is not shameful. It feels… right.”

“Right,” Sam echoed. Hancock was no longer muttering at the ground but looking straight at him, his eyes shining with the kind of bravery of people who dance in the light of their burning homes. In this moment he was great and very small, incredibly courageous and infinitesimally vulnerable all at once. Like he had just decided to throw all caution to the wind and, maybe for the first time in his life, to freely speak his mind on the issue. It made Sam’s heart feel raw and wounded.

“Think of me what you will,” Hancock said, “but I insist that it is a very odd thing of yourself to bring this up here and now.” His tone was defiant, as if implying something he knew was not true, just to say _something_.

“You’re right,” Sam said softly. “It is an odd place and time for that. What could I possibly mean by asking the man who is with me in the bath about his alleged buggery.”

“Hah. Exactly.” Hancock made a little grimace. Perhaps it was supposed to be a smile.

“And wouldn’t you like to know, Johnny.” Sam grinned.

Hancock blinked several times, puzzled and unsure what to do with that strange statement. Sam made his intentions clearer by closing the distance between them and gently, ever so gently gripping Hancock’s wrist. It did not melt. That was good.

“Sam?” Hancock asked. “What do you mean by this, this…?” He trailed off. His gaze, which had been fixed on Sam’s eyes, fluttered down to his mouth. It left Sam with little doubt about his welcome as he leaned in and pressed his lips on Hancock’s mouth.

He’d been meaning to do this since the morning in the garden with the raspberries (had that really been just yesterday? It felt a long time ago). He’d been meaning to do this for much longer. He was out of practice, not having indulged in any kissing since the departure of dear Elizabeth. For a second or two, there was only fluttering uncertainty. Then he felt the cool touch of Hancock’s free hand on his shoulder, and Hancock took over the kiss with a swiftness and a surety that Sam just loved. He was still awkwardly holding Hancock’s wrist, so he released it and put his hand on Hancock’s waist instead, where he was met with even more soft skin… more soft, _bare_ skin.

He had to break the kiss to laugh a little. “We’re both _naked_ ,” he proclaimed somewhat nonsensically.

Hancock smiled, his eyes full of wonder. “Yes. And I… you kissed me.”

“Yes.”

“I never thought that you of all people would be interested in…”

“Everyone could be, no?”

“But _you?”_

“I hadn’t considered it before, myself. But then you.”

“Me?” Hancock laughed. “I made you realize that you’re…?”

Sam cocked his head in faint amusement. “Yes. Now can we go back to the kissing?”

Hancock huddled even closer, putting his hands on Sam’s chest, then his shoulders. “Oh yes,” he breathed. “Yes, please.”

They exchanged another long kiss, then a series of short, sweet kisses. Then Hancock slipped his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Sam made a muffled, surprised noise but went along with it, clumsy in trying to imitate what Hancock was doing, but always eager. He found he liked kissing in that way, the added layer of closeness. As if standing in a pool of water, wrapped in each other’s arms and completely nude, was not close enough.

And it really wasn’t. Emboldened, Sam put both his hands on Hancock’s waist, then ran them along his spine, up and down again. It was a joy to learn Hancock’s body, to discover him with his hands. Hancock made a little choked moan and wrapped his arms tightly around Sam’s neck, fingers carding through his scraggly ponytail.

Suddenly Hancock took a small step back, breaking the kiss and their embrace. Sam stilled completely, worried that he had done something wrong somehow. But Hancock smiled and, with raised eyebrows, directed his gaze downward. They were still standing very close to each other, close enough for Sam’s fully hard cock to poke somewhere into the area of Hancock’s abdomen.

All the blood that wasn’t needed down there immediately rose to Sam’s face. “God, I’m so… sorry,” he stammered. “Good lord, I never meant… it’s just, you’re so… but still I should’ve…”

Hancock, now grinning openly, made a soft shushing sound. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“Oh, um, are we?”

In one graceful, fluid movement, Hancock brought their bodies close again. They were now flush against each other, and Sam felt something hard pressing against him in the vicinity of his thigh. He almost squirmed, but not with discomfort. No, this felt _good_. 

Hancock’s bright blue eyes looked up at him through his light blond lashes in mock coyness. “You do want to fuck me, right?”

Sam huffed a little bashful laugh. “I didn’t know it was possible!”

“Oh, there are ways.” Hancock almost purred. He seemed happy with the friction he was getting from their close proximity. “But not here, not now. For now I’d just…”

His small, soft hand closed suddenly around Sam’s cock. With an almost thoughtful look on his face, Hancock stroked him once, slowly, base to tip as if testing the feel of it. The simple touch made Sam shudder so hard he had to grip Hancock’s shoulder for support.

“Lean on me if you must,” Hancock advised serenely as he continued to move his hand in increasingly twisty, ingenious ways. Sam tried to stay upright on his own anyway, but felt his legs grow steadily weaker. When Hancock experimentally squeezed him a tiny bit harder than he had before, Sam bit back a choked moan and gave up on carrying his own weight, his head falling to Hancock’s shoulder. He settled in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, covering the area in kisses and soft little bites when Hancock did well. And he did well. Oh so well. God, this would not take long, he hadn’t done this for eternity, hadn’t even touched himself in quite a while, because frankly there had not been anything to touch himself about. Riots did not get him off, contrary to what the British thought…

Whatever it was Hancock did down there, it only fed his need. He dug his nails into Hancock’s back and whimpered a little as it burned and coiled within him and he found himself rutting into Hancock’s hand to get more, harder, faster.

He forgot his surroundings. He forgot the war. He forgot everything but Hancock and the feel of his hand around his dick. He felt himself hurtling towards conclusion already.

“Alright?” Hancock whispered close to his ear.

“Mm… god, Johnny, _Johnny_ ,” Sam found himself moaning nonsensically, and he bit down on Hancock’s skin as he came. Hancock was pressed close against him again, and he could feel himself shooting off in long, white-hot streaks all over Hancock’s stomach, soiling him so… and Hancock still kept tugging at his dick, light touches with his fingertips on the hot, overly sensitive skin as Sam shivered through his orgasm. He had to straighten up and push Hancock’s hands away himself.

“Johnny, for god’s sake,” he said quietly, smiling. “Enough.”

Hancock, too, was smiling, flushed and excited. “So, that was fun,” he said.

Sam looked at him with fondness. He felt languid and content with the world, basking in the golden haze of the afterglow. He wanted to lie down and rest in the sun. But he had gotten off and Hancock hadn’t, and it raised a competitive spark in him. Searching Hancock’s face for a sign that this was what he wanted, Sam now reached down and curled his hand around Hancock’s dick. Even hard, Sam’s fist enveloped almost the whole of it. Hancock keened and arched against him, his eyes falling closed immediately.

Sam felt like the occasion called for something different, something more than he’d been given. And the best thing was, he could do this sitting, or at the very least squatting down. He didn’t care that he had to submerge most of himself in water for it. He went down before Hancock even knew what was happening and licked a broad stripe all the way down his abdomen to the base of his dick. He tasted himself on Hancock on the way down, which was odd, but not unpleasant. Above, he heard Hancock gasp.

Sam looked up and met Hancock’s eyes. “That what you want?” he asked. “Would it be agreeable if I tried taking this into my mouth now?”

Hancock moaned already at the mere thought. “God, yes, but… don’t worry if… if you have to gag—”

Sam chuckled, looking at Hancock’s small, cute erection. He could probably fit that whole thing into his mouth without any difficulties. “Do not worry.”

In truth, he was a little uneasy on the specifics of doing this, but he decided to go ahead and just try. He took the tip into his mouth first and Hancock whined already, but it was a good whine, sounding like pleasure rather than discomfort, so Sam eased all the way down until the tip of Hancock’s dick hit the back of his throat. But he did not gag.

What now? Hancock was willing himself to be still so much that his legs shook under the strain, so Sam figured that the motion had to come from him. He began to explore what he could do with his tongue, with his lips, with just a very light graze of teeth, and Hancock moaned and sagged a little, one hand gripping Sam’s shoulder for support, the other in his hair. Sam raised his eyes and made a questioning humming noise, to assure that he was doing alright, and Hancock gasped sharply and bucked his hips a little, bringing small tears of pain to Sam’s eyes.

“God,” Hancock gasped. “Sorry, so sorry, but you – doing this to me, you –”

Sam couldn’t help the corners of his mouth tugging up in a mischievous grin. He reached out and gripped Hancock’s thighs to steady him but also to keep him still. Then he inhaled and hummed again, making this one long and vibrating, making sure that Hancock really felt it. Hancock seemed to want to writhe but could get nowhere.

He kept this up for a few more minutes, immersing himself as he did in every task, reducing Hancock to a quivering mess. He didn’t mind his own uncomfortable position, or the water, or the tiny stones digging into his soles. His hands strayed from Hancock’s thighs to his ass, gripping and kneading, which coaxed more delicious noises from Hancock. He felt very soft under Sam’s fingers. If he’d had any way whatsoever to get hard again, this could probably have done the job just by itself.

Then Hancock tugged at his hair, trying to shrink back. “I’m… going to…” he sputtered, but Sam shrugged in acknowledgement and kept him right where he was. He swallowed all of Hancock’s release, and licked him clean afterwards with something close to greed. He didn’t spend much thought on the taste, so absorbed was he in the action, but as soon as he stopped he felt like he had to wash out his mouth.

“It’s so bad, isn’t it,” Hancock remarked with a tired little huff of laughter.

“Maybe it’s a refined taste,” Sam quipped, “You know, like beer is…”

Hancock, still laughing, plopped down in the water besides him, making a tiny splash and ripple. When seated, the water went halfway up his chest.

“What say you we _actually_ clean up now…?”


	8. Day 4 - Evening/Day 5 - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's been 11 days so I thought why not update
> 
> Sam has a negative image of his own body. He also feels lightly anxious abt doing anal, but hey, this is the guy behind the whole idea of Resisting The British. He's willing to try new things, is what I'm sayin. Warning for discussion and depiction of scars (not self-inflicted), an Old-Fashioned approach to being gay, and, y'know, NSFW stuff. 
> 
> Comment on my sex fic you guys

That night, getting into bed with Sam was not uncomfortable at all. It was certainly a wholly new experience, though: John had known quick trysts in the past, few and far between, always in secret, always with that air of scandal about the whole affair. He had not known… whatever this was. None of his former partners had ever stayed to cuddle. None had ever shared his bed for an entire night. And he had never felt this safe with any one of them.

As Sam sat on his side of the bed and started shucking all his clothes off, John marveled over the fact that this was really happening. That Sam Adams, of all people, wanted him, and wanted to be with him. That he was really right there, available to touch, to kiss. This was reality, and Sam was there for him.

Just to make sure that he really could, that this wasn’t some sort of dream from which he would wake up half-hard and sad, he reached out and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam turned towards him and gave him a curious half-smile that conveyed mischief, insecurity and fondness all at once. John remembered that Sam was even more in the dark about this entire thing than him. But he was willing to go along with this, to even let John take the lead, and judging from the way his eyes shone, it made him feel things. John couldn’t help returning the smile with one of his own.

He scooted over onto Sam’s side of the bed until he was almost sitting in his lap. Then he unbuttoned the waistcoat that Sam was for some reason still wearing and slid it off his shoulders. He had Sam take off his shirt next, so that he could apply his hands everywhere he wished on Sam’s shoulders and torso, stroking softly, committing the feel of him to memory. The sharp jut of his collarbones. The small hairs on his chest and the thin trail that snaked down his stomach and disappeared below his pants. His too prominent ribs.

John prodded Sam’s side, frowning in discontent. “Hand me two sticks and I’m sure I can knock out a tune on you.”

“Not all are as well-fed as you in Boston.”

John wasn’t buying it. “Oh come now. You are not as destitute as to be reduced to starving.”

Sam shrugged, his shoulders rolling under John’s hand. “Right. I suppose I just don’t eat much.”

“I have noticed.”

Just then, John’s searching hand brushed past something rough in texture, like a rash or a sore. He inhaled sharply, startled. “What is that? Can you bring the candle a bit closer?”

“What is this, some kind of study? Examining the merchandise? Are you going to feel my teeth next?” Sam grumbled, but he did reach for the candle.

What John’s exploring fingers had found was scar tissue, looking to be months, if not years old. He was not an expert. In the candlelight, he saw that this was by no means the only scar or blemish his companion sported. There were several little scrapes and bruises that looked alarmingly freshly healed, from fairly recent scraps with redcoats, John supposed. But these looked small compared to some of the more ghastly old scars. Some of them were jagged and shaped in odd ways. Some of them were just big.

“So many…” he whispered. “You must have seen so many fights.”

Sam grimaced. “You could say that.”

“Here…?” John asked as he traced a scar that was in actuality several small scars, arranged in an odd, cyclical shape. It looked almost artistic, as if on purpose.

“Ah. Have you ever been in a fight – in a tavern – no, you haven’t. But imagine you are, and you’re armed only with half a broken bottle, and the other man is armed in the same way, and you’re both drunk out of your wits and…”

“Ouch.”

“I don’t remember it hurting. But Warren cursed something fierce as he pulled all the glass out.”

“What was the fight about?”

“I don’t recall that either. Simple zest for life, maybe. Or the other fella looked at me funny. Or I at him. Bar fights just happen.”

“You… can’t be serious.”

“Oh yes I am.” John felt more than he saw Sam’s hand come up to tuck a strand of John’s hair behind his ear. “Now will you blow out the candle? I’m sure you don’t want to see any more.”

“What? Of course I do. And I’m not even finished undressing. And neither are you. I didn’t even get to properly look at you before.”

“There’s nothing to look at. Some more scars. It’s ugly.”

“It? What? Are you referring to your body?”

Sam huffed and turned his head away. “The candle, Johnny.”

“No.” John slid off the bed and knelt between Sam’s legs. He divested Sam of his stockings and got to work on his breeches next. “Come on,” he ordered. “Off.”

Sam did not object.

“You have very finely turned legs,” John observed. “Do you dance at all?”

“Um, no?”

“Then I must simply teach you.” He made a satisfied hum as he stroked Sam’s calves and upward to his thighs, which he also pronounced shapely and handsome. Then finally he allowed himself to direct his attention to between Sam’s legs. His cock was now limp, but even so, significantly longer and thicker than John’s own.

“Oh, I can’t wait to have all of that in me,” he purred.

“ _In_ you?” Sam asked.

“Mm-hmm. I will show you, soon. Tomorrow. Alright?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Tomorrow it is, then. Now can we finally go to sleep?”

“Ah, in a moment. Just hand me the candle for a second, please? Oh, thank you.”

He took the candle and bathed Sam’s body in a golden light, took in jagged scars and protruding bones and a general, dark, coarse hairiness. Sam blinked in the light.

“It is as I thought,” John declared. “You’re very beautiful.”

“Johnny—” Sam said softly.

“Shh.” John blew out the candle, set it down and climbed back upon the bed. “Hold me close tonight.”

 

* * *

 

He woke up to sunlight streaming in through the window and Sam _still_ being there. He had trapped John in a tight, full-body embrace; his legs wound in between John’s legs, his chest aligned with John’s back.

_What a way to wake up_ , John thought and shifted a little, content. For a moment, he imagined himself waking up like this, with Sam chuffing quietly into his ear, day after day after day until he died. It was not a scary or dull thing to imagine. It felt good.

He smiled as he took note of something hard poking into his lower back, and wiggled around until Sam’s erection was neatly aligned with the crease of his ass. He almost moaned out loud as he imagined how that thick length might feel inside him, and almost involuntarily ground down a bit, essentially rubbing his butt against Sam’s groin. Behind him, the regular little chuffing breaths became a long, drawn-out sigh and then words.

“Johnny, what on earth are you doing…?” His voice was gravelly with sleep. For some reason, this sent chills down John’s spine.

“Oh… oh, I woke you up.”

“‘S the middle of the night…”

“No, it’s not. The sun is up, and it’s looking to be a wonderful morning.”

“I don’t care about the sun. It’s early. Why do you keep _wriggling_ like that? Um… oh.”

Apparently, Sam was now awake enough to fully take notice of what was going on in his crotch area. John could feel him trying to withdraw and put his hands over Sam’s to keep him from breaking their hug.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Sam say, “if I was… I didn’t mean to…”

“There’s no need to apologize for what you did when you were asleep. And even now… _especially_ now…” John couldn’t have stopped himself if he had tried from rubbing his bum against Sam’s dick again. He knew he was most likely driving the other man crazy. And he loved it.

“I want you,” he whispered, “to fuck me.”

He felt Sam shift against him. “You still haven’t explained to me yet how that is supposed to go.”

“Oh, I shall. But first, if you’ll excuse me for a moment…”

John didn’t bother putting clothes on as he slipped out of bed. He heard the tiny, dissatisfied noise that Sam, apparently, had tried and failed to suppress at the loss of their embrace, and couldn’t help but smile. After such a long time of being treated like a waste of space, this was immensely rewarding.

He made his way over to the kitchen and wasted no time in rifling through all the cabinets. He really hoped he’d find something suitable for use here. It was such a tedious business to have to resort to lamp oil, after all… oh, he remembered that one time, back when he had visited London…

In the pantry he discovered a few small clay pots that looked promising, and set about opening them. The first two unfortunately only contained dried herbs, but the third one was filled almost to the brim with a greenish oil. He carried that one back to the bedroom.

Sam hadn’t moved from his spot. John had, of late, seen little of Sam’s intimidating side, but he remembered the look of it. Now, he looked like a completely different person, so simply adorable with his bedhead that it made John’s heart swell. He got back into bed and showed his find to Sam, who eyed it with interest.

“What is this for?” he asked.

John told him.

“Are you serious?” Sam asked.

John nodded.

“But… surely that…”

“You know I have lately bathed, if that is your concern. It should not be unsanitary.”

“No, I should say not…” Sam muttered. “But surely _that_ … cannot fit in _there_.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” John reassured him. “I’ve had other men do this for me – though not all of them this well-endowed…” He unabashedly eyed Sam’s erection. It had waned a little, so he took it in his hand and stroked it once, base to tip. Sam’s cock angled slightly upwards, almost leaning snugly into his hand. Sam made a sound, half a sigh, half a moan.

“If you want to, we can leave it at this,” John suggested. “You don’t have to put it in me. It’s your choice.”

“No,” Sam said, his voice a little huskier than it had only just been. “If you think this’ll work, I want to try.” He paused. “Do you, um… really think I’m well-endowed?”

John had to smile. “Moreso than most men I had, that’s for certain.” It was true, he thought, you found your diamonds in the rough. He didn’t share this thought with Sam. It would only offend him, or perhaps make him laugh, or make him think less of himself, and John was not prepared to take that gamble.

He dipped two fingers into the oil, splaying his legs for Sam to see.

“Put some on yourself, too,” he advised. “It’ll make it easier.”

He prepped himself as quickly and perfunctorily as reason permitted, relishing in the feel of one, then two slicked-up fingers inside himself, and Sam’s eyes resting on him made everything so much more exquisite.

“And this is pleasant, yes?” Sam asked.

“Ever the sceptic,” John half-panted. “It _is_ pleasant. There is a certain spot up there that when touched feels beyond heavenly.”

“Still, it seems a rather small opening.”

“Give it time. It stretches quite nicely. I can usually take four fingers without difficulty. Maybe up to five. We will not have a problem.”

He beckoned for Sam to come closer.

“I’m ready for you now,” he said. “Put it in.”

He almost writhed in anticipation as he felt the tip of Sam’s dick nudge against his rim. He willed himself to relax and be patient.

“And you’re perfectly sure…?” Sam asked again.

“Yes. Go on. I’ll help you along when I can.”

Sam pushed in with sparse little motions that betrayed his insecurity. The excruciating slowness of it all made John groan in frustrated desire. Sam wasn’t even half in and he already felt so big, so huge, filling him up inside. His legs began to quiver with the strain of keeping himself upright, so he inched closer until he could comfortably hook them over Sam’s shoulders.

He met Sam’s eyes and smiled to show that he was fine, more than fine. Sam looked back at him in a way that might be described as wrecked, his pupils blown so wide that the brown of his eyes was almost entirely swallowed by black, a few errant strands of sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead. He always looked intense but in this moment, especially so.

“Well,” John breathed. “Did I promise too much?”

“Johnny…” It was the first time someone said his name quite like this, like a curse, like a prayer. “God, Johnny, you’re so tight, so hot—”

“I know,” John murmured almost a tad soothingly. He had by now eased all the way down on Sam’s cock. His own erection hadn’t so much as been touched yet, but he didn’t overly mind. For a moment, he just relished in the feeling of fullness, the stretch of his hole.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

Sam’s first thrusts were shallow, but soon, by pure chance, he had found that special spot that made John writhe and clutch the sheets. He began hitting it over and over again and with purpose, and every time was like an explosion of stars inside. John tried to grasp his own cock without losing his balance but was met with Sam swatting his hand away. Sam had been stroking his thighs as he fucked into him, almost in reverence, but now one of his hands strayed from that task and closed around his dick. Sam’s hand was larger than his own and calloused and felt rough on his sensitive skin. It had John babbling senselessly in absolute pleasure. He could feel his orgasm building up, beginning to coil inside him, little shivers down his spine, he knew he had to succumb any second now, and he wanted release but he didn’t want this to end, didn’t want this to ever end.

Then, it was Sam who came first, the taut line of his body suddenly folding as he spilled inside John’s ass. The feeling of that was what did it for John, and he too came all over Sam’s hand and onto his own stomach.

Sam pulled out carefully and settled on his side of the bed, still out of breath with the exertion of it all.

“Well, that sure was something,” he said.

John hummed in agreement. His hole felt wide open and empty and he already missed the feeling of Sam in there. As always after having someone fuck him there, he felt the urge to touch, to feel just how sensitive he was, to fill that space again as soon as possible. But above all, he felt sleepy, a great wave of drowsiness washing over him. He cuddled up into Sam’s side and closed his eyes.

“You only just woke up,” Sam complained. “And you’re sticky.”

John shushed him and went back to sleep.


	9. Day 5 - Midmorning to Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got all caught up in Star Trek again, hence the delay in updates, but nothing can keep me from finishing this fic
> 
> Shoot me a comment at your convenience!!
> 
> Sam worries too much.

Sam had no idea how John could sleep like this.

He looked absolutely debauched, lying there in such a way, sprawled stark naked on the bed: his skin shiny with a thin veneer of sweat, his hair all tousled, and his ass, thighs and stomach soiled with drying… Sam quickly looked away, flushing. He still couldn’t quite believe what they had just done.

He waited until John’s even little breaths turned into snores and his mouth fell open, then he got out of bed. He tugged the blanket over John to afford him some decency. And oh dear, he drooled in his sleep. What a mess. What an adorable, strangely alluring mess that made his heart swell and his dick twitch.

Sam put on his breeches, stockings and boots and fished around in the bundle of his personal belongings that he had brought here for a fresh shirt. He found one that was horribly crumpled-up from spending several days carelessly stuffed into a bundle, but at least not as greasy as the one he had worn the previous day and too many days before that. He put that on, too, then he headed to the kitchen. He carelessly wiped his hand off on his breeches, then mentally berated himself for bad form. Now, apparently, he was the kind of man who went around with someone else’s dried semen on their pants.

He shook these thoughts off and tried his best to throw some breakfast together. They had only little bread left, and what they had was starting to taste a little stale. Sam hoped that Paul and Warren would soon send someone with fresh provisions and news from the outside world. He wasn’t as bored and unhappy now as he had been when he’d gotten here, but he still was eager to learn what was going on. Also, they couldn’t live off of raspberries out here. If there was anything growing in the little vegetable garden, that would be a different thing entirely…

He found himself entertaining a little fantasy in which he woke up here day after day to get up and make breakfast and when he’d return to the bedroom there would be John Hancock there, waiting for him. He would fix up the garden patch and maybe get some tips from his cousin on how to grow things on it, and he’d grow things on it, enough to sustain the two of them, and he’d do virtually all the chores around the house and complain a bit about it, but he would not be truly unhappy. And maybe in the evenings he’d get to fuck John again in the way they’d done just earlier. And so they’d spend their days; in summer they’d take walks and soak up the sun in the garden, in winter they’d curl up by the fireplace together, and it’d be just the two of them in their little cottage, for an indefinite amount of time. No fighting, no resistance movement, no General Gage, no occupied Boston. Just peace.

He carried his plate into the bedroom where John was still snoring away, and set it down on the nightstand. As an afterthought, he went out to the pump and filled a jug with water, putting the cleanest rag he could find down next to it, so that when John woke up, he could at least perfunctorily wipe all the stickiness off himself. Sam saw no reason to disturb John’s princely slumber, so he went back into the kitchen, uncorked another one of the bottles salvaged from the basement and took a swig: his breakfast.

For the first time in a good long while, he felt reluctant about this. There had not been anything worth staying sober for in… oh, years. But now he found himself wishing he could experience not only the entire revolt he had somehow come into leading but also his remaining days here in perfect clarity, not dulled by the constant background buzz of his usual one or two drinks. He really couldn’t – a full withdrawal was immensely painful and took time, and he did not have time. At any moment, the rebellion could take a dramatic turn, and then he would be needed. He couldn’t well clear a space in his planner for one or two days of intense delirium, and that was only the beginning of things. But someday, when all this was over, and if no one had hanged him, and he still felt this way, he thought he might consider sobriety as an option.

He laughed a little at his own thoughts. Here he was, dreaming up utopian futures, just because the boy had allowed him to stick his dick in once. He knew he had to be more careful with allowing his emotions to get the best of him; or what had happened with his Betsy would happen again with someone else. And yet, he was the way he was, throwing his heart out to all and sundry. Caring too much. Always caring way too much.

Some noises from the bedroom signified that John was up. Maybe he should go and speak to him… or maybe he should leave him alone. Yes, that was probably for the best.

Sam shook his head about himself. Things were happening inside him at a way too rapid pace, feelings were budding there that baffled him, almost scared him even. Only days ago, he would’ve had no problem poking fun at Hancock, talking down to him and generally treating him like an annoyance he had to put up with. Maybe a spark of all he felt now had already been present within him then, and he just hadn’t known how to cope with it…

He still didn’t know it now. And, even more excruciatingly, he didn’t know how John felt. John had done this before and seemingly, from how he spoke about these past experiences, without forming any attachment towards the men he had done it with. Maybe this was no different to him, a repetition of a familiar pattern in foreign circumstances… Maybe _he_ was no different, reduced to a rich boy’s plaything.

“Sam?”

The voice cut right through all his conflicted thoughts. And damn, it was just pathetic how his heart skipped a beat just from the way that boy said his name.

He stuck his head in through the bedroom door to find John still in bed, nibbling at his bread and eggs and taking dainty sips of coffee in between. He smiled as Sam entered the room and sat with him on the bed.

“A _very_ good morning to you,” he said in his soft, breathy voice. “Did you make this for me?”

“Who else would’ve done it?” Sam asked.

“Of course. Thank you. The water was a nice touch. But I’d still like to have a proper bath later, and do some laundry, finally.” He looked at Sam as if checking with him if that was alright.

“Sure,” Sam said, shrugging. “It’s not like we have other plans.”

John made a happy, affirmative noise. “All this is so thoughtful of you. Wherever did you find this jam?”

“It was in one of the pantries in the kitchen, you know, perfectly preserved.”

“It’s good. You had some, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you must have had breakfast, yourself.”

“Eh, you know…” He rarely ever had much of an appetite. He couldn’t quite explain it. Maybe it was the drinking that did that.

John tutted, sounding almost motherly. “Oh, that won’t do at all. Here.” He held what was left of his slice of bread to Sam’s mouth, nudging slightly until he opened up. He looked so serious and so determined about it that Sam found himself helpless but to comply. He did make it a point to suck the sweet strawberry jam off John’s fingers, swirling his tongue around them with a mischievous grin, biting very lightly, once.

“You must simply eat more,” John said. “You’re so skinny.”

“You’ve gotten a bit thinner yourself,” Sam replied as soon as his mouth was free. “Although your face remains…”

“Please don’t tease me, I know it is somewhat… round…”

“Cherubic.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the word I was looking for. Like one of them angels.”

John reddened slightly. “Oh, you flatter me.” But he readily soaked up the compliment, almost greedy for more.

Sam gently put the plate with the remainders of breakfast aside and lifted the covers so he could get a look at John. He still hadn’t put any clothes on. Quite scandalous.

He found himself tracing an ugly purple bruise at the junction of John’s neck and shoulder that was very clearly a bite mark. There were imprints of individual teeth, plainly visible. And this was not the only bruise of its kind there was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “about those. There are so many. I really went overboard.”

“It’s fine,” John replied. “They do not hurt. Please touch them again.”

Sam was somewhat puzzled as to that request, but he complied. He stroked the bite mark he had left the previous day again, very lightly.

“Harder,” John almost commanded.

Sam pressed a finger into the skin, as hard as he dared, making John moan and squirm a little. And it definitely was a moan of arousal, not a groan of pain.

“This is… oddly pleasing,” John said, his voice beginning to hitch a little. “Do it again.”

“That is a strange thing to be pleased by,” Sam remarked.

“Do it again,” John repeated, almost whining.

“Needy little thing,” Sam teased, retracting his hand. “Do you want this to go further? Do you want us to stay in bed all day? Nothing would get done.”

“Who says we need to get something done?” John purred, shifting closer. “We’re on vacation.”

“No, we’re not. We’re in hiding, and there’s a fight going on. Now come on, get out of bed, we’re doing laundry, as you wanted.”

John put up a bit of a token protest, but finally he acquiesced.

 

* * *

 

Even outside, in the garden, and then on the way to the pond, John seemed unable to keep his hands off Sam. He linked their hands tightly as they walked, making Sam feel all fluttery inside in a way he hadn’t felt ever since he’d been, oh, much younger and a lot less weary of the world and courting his pastor’s beautiful daughter. Was that what was happening right now? Love, again, after all these years? He had to admit that the prospect scared him.

John’s voice snapped him out of his conflicted thoughts. “Sam… are you seeing anything out of the ordinary over there…?”

“Over where?” Sam asked, directing his eyes to where John was looking.

“I thought I saw… something between those trees over there.”

“Well, I see nothing.” Perhaps there was some rustling in the undergrowth, but maybe that was just his eyes deceiving him. “Might be some animal there.”

John didn’t seem convinced yet.

“I can go look,” Sam offered.

“Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself,” John said. “I am overly anxious sometimes. Let us go on.”

Well, John did have a habit of worrying too much and being somewhat skittish in rural environments. Sam was still a bit surprised that he had voluntarily ventured out into the woods in the first place. He told himself sternly to not be paranoid. There was no one there but the two of them, and he wouldn’t have this wonderful day ruined by nagging doubts.

They arrived undisturbed at their little pool. John had been as thoughtful as to bring a bar of soap this time, and they tried their best to do their laundry, clumsy as they were with it, Sam drawing again upon half-faded memories of what he had seen poor dear Betsy do to his shirts, once upon a time. They left their clothes to dry on a sun-warmed rock as they bathed together once more, blissfully.


	10. Paul Revere's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah i decided to add another chapter to this after more than a month and it's this

Paul Revere hitched his horse to the garden fence and took a few small bundles out of his saddlebag, which he stored in the big pockets of his coat as he walked up to the cottage’s door.

He knocked, then knocked again, receiving no answer. Not hesitating for long, he simply walked around the house and let himself in through the back door, not sparing the garden more than a cursory glance.

This was odd. He had known Sam Adams for a while now, and he’d been fairly certain that he’d get an enthusiastic, not to say frenetic welcome. He had half expected to be greeted at the front door and hauled bodily inside by a Sam Adams practically half-mad with his need to hear the latest news from Boston. But it was not so. The house seemed to be deserted, leaving Revere to wonder if something had happened to Sam and Hancock.

Well, the house was just… empty. There were no traces of a fight. Sam and Hancock had certainly been here fairly recently; some food scraps, clothes and other items belonging to the two of them were scattered around the kitchen, together with a few bottles in varying states of empty that suggested that Sam had found a solution to what his chagrined friends referred to as his little problem. The place was in the state that a place will be in when inhabited by two bachelors together.

Revere peeked into all of the rooms, saving the bedroom for last. The bed was unmade, and there was a faint, strange smell in the air – if Revere hadn’t known better he would have said it was almost like the particular scent of sex.

He brushed the thought off. There was no one here for either of the men to have sex with, and besides, the situation was hardly appropriate for it. Also he knew that Sam just wasn’t the type. He had heard from Warren, who was for all intents and purposes Sam’s lancer, that Sam hadn’t really fancied anybody since that sad thing with his wife. Instead, he’d stuck with politics, day-drinking and the company of men.

Paul stepped out into the garden, again. It occurred to him to check the stables, where he found no people but indeed the two horses that had brought Sam and Hancock here a few days prior. So they hadn’t gone away, at least not far. This warranted the conclusion that they had to be around. Had they become so bored that they were hiding in the bushes in some silly hide-and-seek game, laughing at him as they did? Were they watching him just now? Did he feel like he was being watched?

No, he told himself, shaking these uncomfortable thoughts off. He took a few steps across the garden. He plucked a raspberry from Hancock’s favorite bush. And, eventually, he found the little path across the meadow, into the woods.

He unholstered his gun as he followed the path, because there’s telling yourself to stop feeling like something is off, and then there’s shedding that feeling completely, and the former is much more easily done than the latter.

He had ambled along between the trees for a few minutes when he spied the glint of water, and then, faintly in the distance, there were… sounds. No, voices. Laughter.

Paul became aware that these voices were known to him. That he was hearing Sam laugh.

He had known Sam for a while. He knew Sam had wit, maybe more of it than anyone in the Sons of Liberty. But he had rarely heard him _laugh_ , sincerely, out of pure, honest mirth, with no traces of sarcasm involved. Maybe never.

Revere smiled and put his gun away as he made to approach his friend.

The voices got louder as he got closer to the water. Paul could now distinguish Hancock’s voice too, but too quietly to make out what he was saying. All he saw was that little spring that accumulated into a natural pool of clear water, large for a pond but too small to be called a lake. He was close to stepping out from behind the trees and putting himself in clear view of anyone in or around the water when he spotted the two hopelessly entangled bodies by the shore.

It was strange how human perception went, sometimes. Revere’s eyes caught not on the shimmer of the sun on Hancock’s hair, not on the incandescent happiness that had found its somewhat unusual home on Sam’s face, not on their stark naked, entwined limbs, but on the little pile of clothes next to them on a rock, Hancock’s fine linen shirt carefully spread out next to Sam’s old, crumpled-up coat. Somehow, to Paul, this signaled intimacy so vividly, drawing his eyes, this was what he found himself staring at in lieu of staring at his best friend in a decidedly erotic embrace with another man. Maybe it was the artist in him, but this was what he wanted to paint.

If he kept silent, he thought, there was little danger of being spotted. Hancock had his back to him and Sam was kissing Hancock now with the verve that Sam put to every task. Well, thought Paul Revere, well.

What to make of this?

He was no complete stranger to this. He’d been in the army. War brought this out in some men, apparently, and a war was what they were going to have on their hands fairly soon. He’d never taken part in any of this, in his days as a soldier, but he’d been more than happy to just let the other men be. He knew that a certain inclination could appear in all and sundry, not just in soft, mild men like John Hancock. But Sam Adams, of all people?

Well, it was true that Sam hadn’t looked at a single woman ever since the unlucky incident with his Betsy. Maybe he needed something entirely else, now, to start over. And Paul and the other Sons had often found that, with all due respect to their fearless leader, Sam needed to get laid. Politics was too slow and unwieldy a beast to sufficiently release all that pent-up frustration that man carried around with him.

And besides, he seemed happy enough.

A part of Revere, the one that was mostly just calculating, kicked into gear. What would the men think, it pondered, if this came to light? Would they still be as willing to follow Sam in the resistance as they were now? To follow a man, two men, committing what many thought of as a sin so unchristian that it could not even be named out loud? Some, certainly. But others…

What would happen if he stepped out from behind that tree now? What would he say? What would Sam say? (He could just about imagine what Hancock would say.) Would he get to say anything before Sam brought swift retribution down upon him? Yes, they were friends, but to what lengths would Sam go if he thought he needed to protect himself and his… well, what? His lover? How much did Samuel Adams really trust Paul Revere, at this point in time? Sam was a good man, at his core, but sometimes… sometimes he was almost scary. And he lived in the moment, with all senses wide open in the moment. Perhaps he would not hesitate. They were alone out here. There were so many ways for a man as resourceful as Sam to make someone disappear. Blame it on the redcoats. What a pity… he will be missed. There was a pistol lying on that rock…

_No_ , Paul thought. _That’s nuts_. Sam valued his friends above all else. He wouldn’t, not just like that, not without giving Paul any time to at least explain himself. He really felt bad about walking in on this for a much different reason.

You didn’t just walk in on two people obviously engaged in lovemaking. Especially not in this case. And Sam was genuinely happy, maybe for the first time in years. Paul didn’t want to force himself into this situation. Sam would come to him with this sooner or later, because they were friends and trusted each other, or maybe not at all, and that was fine, too. For now, he’d let them have their moment, undisturbed and blissful. Lord knew there weren’t many such moments for anyone now.

Paul Revere turned and went back to the house as quietly as he could.

Back there, he unloaded the contents of his many pockets upon the kitchen table, then he was ready to leave. But it would be horrible of him, he realized, to leave Sam hanging without any news. That was half the reason he had come here, after all. He considered waiting until the two lovebirds returned, but decided against it. Instead, he went on a hunt for writing utensils and found ink, quill and paper eventually. He turned over Sam’s latest, scrawled attempt at pamphleteering and jot down a message for his friend to read when he got back. Should he tell him that he’d seen him with Hancock, that his secret was safe?

_Ah, what the hell_ , he thought.


End file.
